Cheap Jibes to Perpetuate the Great American Myth

 

I am very definitely not a supporter of jingoistic nationalism, the waving of the flag or my country right or wrong. I am suspicious of all things military and abhor violence of any kind or any mindless worship of battles and "heroes". An old friend said many years ago (she was about 80 at the time) when our TV screens and news broadcasts were filled with one of the many anniversary "celebrations" of the end World War 2: "Why are we still fighting this war 50 years after it ended". Betty was not wrong. When nations choose to go to war it means that reason, humanity and common decency have failed and we should all be ashamed.

However, Trump's latest outburst stating that soldiers from NATO were not in the front line during the campaigns in Afghanistan cannot and must not go unchallenged. I know nothing about the tactics of war or "the front line" that Trump refers to but having been around for 80 years I do know a cheap jibe when I hear it and I can usually spot a dodgy snake oil salesman, a dishonest charlatan, a bullying "wannabe" when I cross their path. As a teacher I've seen lots of them on the school playground - the school bullies, demanding an audience and craving misplaced "respect" from the rest of the children. Trump is just another immature playground bully, craving respect through fear and aggression rather than through any positive, worthwhile or even decent personal qualities and his offensive comments say more about him than they do about brave troops of any nation. Of course, he is, in many ways just regurgitating, spurting out (in Trump's case I think the word vomiting is more appropriate) the usual repetitive and tired Hollywood version of reality, a reality where history, events, people and actions are rewritten to fit the American narrative that America is the shining citadel on the hill and saves the world from itself, again and again and again.

If we are going to engage in cheap jibes in the Trump fashion how about this one? On 9/11 New York was hit by a dreadful terrorist attack and the world held its breath and rightly mourned for America. But I often wonder what America would have done if it had been faced with years of blitz of the kind we in the UK suffered in the last war, or that the Ukraine is suffering now or that the people of Gaza have suffered? To put it bluntly we would never have heard the end of it, the beating of American breasts and the uncontrolled weeping, wailing and wallowing would drown out all else. I wonder where Donald Trump would have hung out in such a scenario? Would he have been alongside John Wayne, Arnie Schwarzenegger, Tom Cruise and the rest of the faux American heroes, saving his Trump Tower from obliteration and rescuing the planet yet again - and then spending the rest of eternity retelling the great American myth, blowing the American trumpet? I suspect a more likely scenario is that he would be deep in his bunker, counting his gold, making a pact with the devil and making another deal to make money out of the dead and homeless - and having done his deals he would emerge into the wrecked world and boast that he had stopped another war. If you think that's a bit over the top then remember he proposed buying up ruined Gaza for "real estate", expelling the Palestinians and building a holiday theme park, the "Palestine Riviera"; the man is morally bankrupt and inhuman with absolutely no saving graces . No, there would be no front line for him or any of the other plastic "all American superheroes" - they'd be in their fox holes, cowering, all aggression and false bravery spent. In fact, just like the school bully standing in the Headmaster's Office blubbering, saying "It's not my fault, they told me to do it, I was only joking, please don't tell my mummy.....…"

I would humbly suggest (and going against all my pacifist principles!) that Trump "discusses" his view of NATO's front line involvement and the contribution of troops from the UK, France, Canada, Australia, the Netherlands, Spain, Poland, Italy etc. with people who know what they're talking about when it comes to Afghanistan, Iraq and other war torn areas. This discussion should be behind locked doors in the White House and involve Trump and a couple of war weary and battle hardened NATO squaddies who were in Afghanistan fighting, putting their lives on the line, sustaining terrible injuries and losing old comrades in what was, after all part of American President George Bush's "War on Terror" following 9/11. I'm sure that the two squaddies could and would, in true Don Corleone fashion, make Trump an offer he couldn't refuse. And, like the school bully when confronted with reality, he would squirm and bellow, sob and scream, have another tantrum but in the end be quite easily convinced when raw power explained it all to him and he would be keen to agree that he had "misspoke". He is essentially a coward, brave only when he is not challenged; he would beg forgiveness as the two squaddies towered over him and be anxious to apologise. And, hopefully, when he emerged from the Oval Office he would have the bruises to prove the depth of the "discussion" with the squaddies! Whether he would learn anything, however, is doubtful - he is beyond learning or redemption.

The man is an offensive and dangerous fool. Shame on America and Americans for giving him the power and the air to breath and vomit out his mindless and offensive ranting in 2016 and then again in 2024. And even more shame on them for not now removing him as unfit for public office. It says much about America and Americans - none of it good. All nations get the politicians and leaders they deserve and those leaders reflect the electorate and its culture. Over seventy years ago in his seminal work on 1950s America, "On The Road", an indictment of his country's rampant consumerism and the shallowness of the American dream, novelist Jack Kerouac, searching for meaning in life,  asked “Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?” His question was never answered and that same shallowness and rampant consumerism has brought us to where we  are today. Trump cannot be viewed in isolation, he is what America is and always has been; a nation that should be ashamed of what they are and what they have spawned.

"Resist the piping pedlar....... Choose to hold on tight to your humanity......."

Pamela Ireland's poignant, perceptive and pertinent poem “Choose” was written in 2018 at the height of the first Trump Presidency and the UK’s own deep social and political divisions over Brexit. It is powerful and prophetic commentary upon our times, even more relevant today, perhaps, than it was in 2018 as the world tumbles into a new dark age: Gaza, Ukraine, Putin, Netanyahu, Trump - evil and unstable mad men and each in charge of frightening power. In recent days the world has watched in various states of fascination and horror at the events in Venezuela: bombings, kidnapping, piracy on the high seas; a mad American President contemplating "buying" or invading and "stealing" another country (Greenland); an American President plumbing the depths of morality and demeaning that Great Office of State by justifying the common and shameless murder of a young woman on the streets of Minneapolis..... and today that same President advises us that “I don’t need international law” and that his power is only limited by his “own morality, my own mind.”  That explains a lot. His idea of right and wrong is wholly subjective. He is his own ethical and legal adviser, his own priest and confessor. He is a church of one. Trump lies to himself as well as everyone else. And the resulting damage is pernicious. It costs lives, harms democracy and destroys trust between nations. And yet, and tellingly, few across the world or in power raise their voices in protest. It is time, as Pamela's poem pleads, for the world to choose which path it takes:

Choose

What maggot eats

a human heart

that it would follow

willingly

a sly pied piper

peddling old lies

who wears the flag

like a cheap salesman’s smile?

What dark music

draws so many of us on

cheering and chanting

in an insane dance

towards a truthless land

where fear and hatred

are the people’s daily bread?

Already unseen hands

tap out orders

as behind the wire

faceless guards

take children

from their mothers.

Who perpetrates

such acts of separation

from their own humanity?

It could be any one of us

when the only choice

is guard or prisoner.

Choose.

Choose now

before the gates close.

Choose to defend

the hard won freedoms

that are every human’s right

before law dances to the piper’s tune

and fear trumps justice

and betrays the just.

Choose to resist

the piping pedlar

for he is the reaper

in disguise.

Choose to hold on tight

to your humanity

and wear it like a hazard suit

around your heart

for you will need it.

Those who would claim

to buy their freedom

with the suffering of innocents

sell everything

a human heart holds dear.

Pamela Ireland Duffy 29.06.2018

The greatest of the First World War poets, Wilfred Owen said that the role of all poets and writers is to speak the truth and Pamela Ireland’s poem does just that, it forces us to choose the world and the morals that we want and need. It puts to the test the unforgivable shame of swathes of the American electorate, American politicians, and our own UK Prime Minister and government, who will not choose to speak the truth, who sit on their hands, silent, afraid or unwilling to say what must and should be said and do what should be done. Their message to Donald Trump should be simple and unequivocal: "This shall not and will not be”; it must be said to state the importance of right over wrong, good over evil. As the great political commentator oft regarded as the father of the Conservative Party Edmund Burke reminded us in the 18th century "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing". If we and our elected representatives do not speak the truth then we become complicit in those deeds committed by those intent upon evil - in this case the malefic perpetrators in Washington who are supported by millions across America in the name of shallow pragmatism, failed economics, irresponsible might and untrammelled greed.

The world no longer pays heed to the wisdom found in Shakespeare's King Lear: in the final lines of this tragic tale of desolation and misrule Edgar warns that there are times when we must "Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say". In the terrible aftermath of the First World War which had wiped out a whole generation, as Russia descended into revolutionary and communist chaos, and as fascism rose in Europe William Butler Yeats told the truth and said what he felt in his poem “The Second Coming”. Yeats' words were prophetic for his time - and now ours, but this time the beast has risen in Washington’s White House not in Nazi Germany and it is spreading its tentacles across the world:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats

These dark cold days of January, the start of the year, are a frightening metaphor for the dark age into which we are descending. Bright Spring might bloom in a few weeks as the seasons change, but mankind is tumbling into darker times, a cold winter it will be for us all which even gentle yellow daffodils, bright golden sun or the early morning blackbird's sweet song will be unable to brighten or cure. As Yeats foretold “….things are falling apart, anarchy is upon the world, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned”. The words in Pamela’s poem and Yeats’ warning from a century ago are profound and articulate wake up calls; it is time for us all to choose, to follow Edgar's advice and "say what we ought to say". The rough beast is upon and within us; its hour come on the streets of Minneapolis, on the streets of wider America - and it is slouching towards our own streets and to the corridors of power across the world; a sly presidential pied piper peddling again the old lies while wearing "the flag like a cheap salesman’s smile", the beast's Presidential "gaze blank and pitiless as the sun", demanding obedience and that knees be bent in servile homage as it snuffs out mankind's Spiritus Mundi. And America and we stand and stare, wring our hands, weep crocodile tears, confess our rage, betray our heritage, betray our fathers and grandfathers, and do nothing, and the beast leers and howls its victory cry.

Thank you Pamela for sharing not just your poem but your wisdom and foresight.

Donald Trump: a latter day Don Corleone or Al Capone. A President who bombs and kidnaps others rather than clearing up the mess in his own back yard.

 

So, the President of the USA tells us that on his orders American planes have bombed the capital city of another nation, Venezuela. He further tells us that the elected President (and his wife) of Venezuela has been "captured" (a euphemism for "kidnapped") and taken to an unspecified destination. And, in a breathtaking piece of arrogance he says that America is going to "run Venezuela" until a new government (presumably favourable to Donald Trump) is installed. If previous similar US actions during my lifetime (Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan et al) are anything to go by this will not end well - for anyone. It is prime example of what Einstein suggested was idiocy - namely doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result. Clearly, the numbskulls of the current Washington White House have not learned the lessons of their own history. But then again, this is Donald Trump and his sycophantic wannabes, individuals known for their rank stupidity, lack of reason and, all too often, criminal intent. We should not be surprised.

The justification for these actions is that "Venezuelan drug cartels" are responsible for importing vast amounts of drugs into the USA and the Venezuelan President is himself corrupt, hated by the Venezuelan population, and won't or can't do anything about this. Or so Donald Trump informs us.

Mmmm! Maybe all this is true and maybe a majority of Venezuelans want rid of their thoroughly disreputable President - but that can never, ever justify what America and Trump have done, attacked another nation. It is reminiscent of the "gun law" of the old West where might equals right. We do not want or need a world where "might" justifies action; it only ends in one way - badly. And, I might add, I am not comfortable with the most powerful man in the world, a man who has consistently displayed his erratic and irrational personality, operating as if he thinks he is Marshal Wyatt Earp or a latter day John Wayne or Clint Eastwood using his guns and his might to keep the world in whatever order he desires and willing to bow their knees to do his bidding.

But there is another more fundamental issue which Trump's actions do not address. The illegal supply of drugs depends entirely upon the demand for them. Drug dealers, dreadful though they are, are merely satisfying a demand; they would not run the vast risks they do if they were not certain of being able to sell their produce. It is the most basic law of economics that supply grows to meet demand; if there is no demand (i.e. people not wanting to buy a product) then businesses, shops and, yes, even drug dealers go out of business or go elsewhere to sell their goods.

So, it seems to me that Trump (and any other national leader) would be far better ensuring that the population of his own country were not minded to desire/purchase the drugs - thus creating a demand - in the first place; no buyers, no suppliers, it's as simple as that.

America is the biggest consumer of illegal narcotics, prescription drugs and opioids in the world by a considerable margin (16.9% - almost 47 million - of Americans aged over 12 years in 2024 and rising at a rate of 1.9% per year compared with 8.8% of the population in the UK, 11% of the French population, 6% in Norway and a European average of 6.8%) which illustrates clearly America’s problem, its increasing akrasia, its entropic decline and the drift into nihilism in its politics, its society and its culture. This, culminating in the election of Trump, indicates with great clarity a society in terminal decline, increasingly unable or unwilling to save itself from its own excesses, unaware or uncaring of its inherent and rising shallowness, its immaturity and its rising tide of violence on its streets, in its schools and shopping malls, and now towards other nations. So, maybe, Trump should concentrate on putting his own house in order before bombing and kidnapping the citizens of another country. And, further, perhaps the American electorate should be ensuring that their President is (like the President of Venezuela) held and charged for being unable or unwilling to do anything about his own citizens actively participating in the illegal use of drugs, for it is them, the millions of American drug users who are creating the demand and thus the eventual supply of illegal narcotics into the USA. But, as always - and certainly with Trump - it's easier to blame someone else (Venezuela) and bomb them rather than clean up the mess in his own back yard.

And one thing we all know is that America and its back yard are the mother and father of all messes; a mixed up society unable to moderate its own behaviour. If it were not so they would not have mass shootings, and out of control drug problems or ingrained racist division, nor would they have defied all logic, common sense and political wisdom by electing a convicted felon and common racketeer as their President. Over a century ago Oscar Wilde famously said that "America is the only country that has gone from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between". He was not wrong then and his words hold even more true today. Trump himself in his manner, his views, his life style and his moral bankruptcy personifies that decadence. His actions this weekend are all about blaming America's contemporary self imposed decadence and chaotic social climate on others - in this case Venezuela. America has elected, and shamelessly continues to tolerate, this modern day Don Corleone or Al Capone figure. America prides itself, they often tell us that they are the great democracy - indeed they have a track record of trying to impose this on other nations - and yet, and despite their famed "democracy" and the crocodile tears from millions of Americans they complain, beat their breasts, write critical tweets but do nothing; they fail the test of democracy to remove a leader who brings shame, discredit and disaster upon the nation - and Trump is allowed to continue unopposed; ultimately, they do not care and in being so they have shown, and continue to show, America's contemporary lack of moral fibre and compass.

Roosevelt, Kennedy, Obama must weep, and so should we - and we should worry. Venezuela is being bombed today, but which country, I wonder, will it be tomorrow? Which of us will suffer the madness and criminal intentions of America and its President. And, I wonder, will Trump simply use the language and rhetoric of his friend and mentor Vladimir Putin and say that this was not an act of war but simply a "Special Military Operation".

Memories of a childhood

Throughout my childhood – and even today – my Dad was my rock. As a long distance lorry driver he was often away from home for two or three days each week so my time with him was often short but he was so important to me. My mother, unfortunately, was prone to fits of anger that flared up almost daily – and were nearly always directed at my Dad. Although we were not beggars we were poor, there was little spare cash, and despite my Dad never being out of work and always each week bringing his pay packet home unopened and handing it to my mother as soon as he walked through the door, money was a constant source of anger in my mother’s mind. But the anger and rage flared up for any reason and no reason and always started with my mother. Dad would just sit quietly while she raged at him. As a child I sat nightly on the top stair of our little house sobbing, listening, as downstairs mother raged at Dad about whatever had upset her; at times like those I wished dearly that I had a brother or sister to relate to, to confide in - I felt very alone in the world. At the meal table I was always frightened that something would ignite my mother’s ire – as it often did. It might be (and this is true) the way Dad had peeled the potatoes (Dad always cooked Sunday lunch while mother stayed in bed reading the paper till almost noon) or perhaps he had not cooked the meat for long enough. But whatever, it was common that meal times would more often than not descend into my mother raging at Dad as I sat sobbing, worrying, afraid that my Dad would simply walk out and leave and I would never see him again. As I got older I became angry because although I knew that my mother loved me dearly, fiercely even, in the end I also knew that Dad was between a rock and a hard place – he could do nothing right in my mother’s eyes; and I also increasingly knew that Dad did his best and was, I believed and still believe, rarely if ever in the wrong. As I sat at the dinner table as a child and a teenager I would make up inane conversations, jokes, anything to keep the focus on me rather than allow my mother’s ire to irrationally flare up in the silent vacuum of the meal. By the end of meal times I was sweating, fearful, anxious for the meal to be over when the likelihood of a row lessened - mother going into the front room to read her paper or knit and Dad would stand at the sink washing up. Still, today, when I sit down for a meal, I often feel my heart quicken and I begin to sweat, in the back of my mind fearful that something will occur to cause an argument between those at the table, whoever they are, and that I will have to sit and witness, relive a much dreaded part of my young life.

Dad just took it all; never fought back. Mother would stand and beat him with her fists, screaming in anger into his face but he just let it happen. When her rage dissipated he would quietly and calmly get on with whatever had to be done, washing up, tidying the house, chopping wood for the fire, hoovering. And I, even as small child, made a promise to myself that I would never, ever allow my children to witness the sorts of things that I had - I would never lose my temper, never row with my wife if I ever had one. In other words, I’d be like my Dad. And whatever happened Dad was always there for me. We went to the pictures together – a time I remember with great fondness - occasionally went to watch Preston North End, he sometimes took me out on his lorry during the school holidays, or went fishing together. These, and others were precious times – I suppose nowadays we would call it bonding – but to me it was a place of safety, when I was with Dad I knew I was safe from mother’s ire.

I never knew what was at the root of my mother’s rage. I do know that she also frequently “fell out” with her sisters, brothers and other members of the wider family – I grew up unaware of aunties, uncles and cousins and only made contact with some of them via social media in the years after my mother’s death; to have done so before would have been a source of rage and venom from my mother. I tried as a child to rationalise, to explain her flare ups but never succeeded. I often thought lack of money was the issue and it clearly produced pressures in the family, but then, in those days everyone was the same, we were not unusual, and in many ways we were better off than many. In more recent years I have pondered that it might have been the stage in life that mother was going through – but that doesn’t really hold true since the rage and anger were always there from my earliest days to the time she died. I do, however, believe that she was frustrated. She was a bright woman and had had a hard life. Her own mother, my grandmother, died when mother was ten years old leaving her as the oldest girl to look after the four other siblings. The impact of this was that she was unable to study, take up a career that might have fulfilled her and I think this was a matter of great regret throughout her life. To add to that I think my Dad “disappointed” her; he was not ambitious and was happy doing his driving and living a quiet life. At one point, when I was a teenager, the Transport Manager at his company retired and Dad was prompted by the company to apply for the job – but, whether it was lack of confidence, or an unwillingness to give up his driving, or maybe even he didn’t relish the thought of being at home seven nights a week rather than being on the road I don’t know but he wouldn’t apply. The job would have meant an increase in pay and probably a gentle wind down towards his own retirement but it wasn’t for him and I know it upset my mother.

My mother, although she loved me ferociously, never showed any fondness – never a cuddle or a kiss – with me or anyone else. When I first met my wife Pat’s family I was bemused and embarrassed that they always hugged and kissed each other when greeting family and friends; it was a thing unknown to me and I felt very uncomfortable with it. I still do; even today I am unsure, uncertain, embarrassed when I am greeted with a hug. Mother never ever showed any outward affection towards my Dad – or her sisters. Dad would always address mother as “love” or “dear” but mother never reciprocated, there was no outward never a hug, never a kiss, never a spontaneous kind word. I have often thought my mother saw affection as a sign of weakness; as she often told me “It’s a hard life” and you had to be strong all the time and never show weakness. Against this background Dad, who would hold my hand when I was a small child, or talk kindly to me when he came home from work, or playfully rub his whiskery chin against my face when I was very young, became, although he never knew it, my safe place, my role model, my rock – there is absolutely no doubt he got me through my childhood. When my mother died I did not weep; I was sorry but never upset. When my Dad died, however, I knew I had lost not only my anchor but the quiet steadfast rock that had kept the family together through all the years; he had quietly got on with life when I’m sure it would have been easier for him to walk away – but he didn’t – and for that I was and am grateful, he made me what I am.

My Dad: Memories of a hard working man who just did his best for his family, his bosses and himself.......and was, and still is, my rock

 

Twenty years ago this year (Nov 6th 2005) my Dad died. He had been unwell for a number of years with breathing and mobility problems and, I think, he was simply “worn out”. As each year passes I know (and my lovely wife, Pat, often reminds me of this!) I grow more like him both in appearance and outlook – the latter a thing I am pleased about; if I can be remembered as half the man my Dad was I’ll settle for that.

He had worked hard all his life. Never had a day out of work and always as a lorry driver. He was born in Tottenham, London but his family moved when he was a child to Cheshunt in Hertfordshire and from the day he left school at 14 he worked with his father and 3 brothers driving lorries from the market gardens and farms of Hertfordshire carrying fresh produce -vegetables, fruit, flowers etc. to Covent Garden Market in central London. This meant an early start – 3 am, six days a week – so that the fresh produce was in London by early morning. When war came he joined the RAF and drove heavy vehicles across Europe and then India. It was while he was in the RAF that he met my Mother who was working in war time London as a nurse (Dad was brought to the hospital where she worked suffering from a broken wrist). They married in Uxbridge just before D Day in May 1944 (see picture below) just before Dad went as part of the invading force into France. In the late summer of 1944 he was put on a troop ship bound for India as part of the war in the Far East which was still going on. He spent over a year in India - a time which he loved and often spoke fondly of (see picture below of him in India with the lorry he was driving). Then, after being demobbed early in 1946 having returned from India at the end of the war in the Far East in September 1945 he moved to Preston, my mother's home town. She had moved back to Preston when she was pregnant with me and in April 1945, just as the war was ending I had come along - Dad was still in India at that point. When they set up home in Preston Dad worked as a lorry driver for a number of haulage companies in the area but settled in 1950 at English Electric – a big employer in the town - where he stayed for the rest of his working life. After he retired and Mum and Dad had moved out of Preston to the village of Garstang, about 10 miles north of Preston he worked part time driving a van for a local timber business and then for several years behind the counter at the local petrol station - he loved that job, chatting to all the locals and the old villagers who came in for their petrol etc.

In all those years I only remember him having time off work on two occasions; in the late 1950s when he fell from his lorry and sustained hip damage and mid1960s when he contracted shingles. Like many at the time he worked a five and half day week from 7 in the morning until 5 at night – and sometimes longer when the need arose. Each Thursday (if he was not on a long distance journey to Southampton or London and so away from home) he would bring home his unopened wage packet and give it to my mother. Every night before he went to bed he would wash and shave. We had no bathroom and no hot water so this was a practical step to save problems in the morning when everyone else was wanting to use the one sink and one tap in the house. And when he left the house at half past six each morning his green overalls would be clean and smart, his tie neatly knotted and his work boots shining. Each morning when he got to work the first job (if he was not away from home) was to hose down his lorry so that, too, started the day clean and bright. He took a pride in his job and his appearance.

The picture on the left shows my Dad standing with his work colleagues at the side of a lorry with part of a Canberra bomber fuselage on it, this is how I remember him going to work each day when I was a child. He stands next to the small man (Little George he was called!) at the left hand end of the front row. The lorry was his and he would drive it that day as part of the 1952 Preston Guild procession where the town's industry was celebrated (Preston Guild happens every 20 years and has taken place since the 13th Century - it's a world famous event and lasts for two weeks with all sorts of parades and events in the town).

Each Sunday evening, throughout his years working at English Electric he would stand in our little kitchen at the wooden ironing board that he had made in his shed and iron several pairs of clean green English Electric overalls – ready for the coming week. When I got to the age of about 10 it was my job each Saturday morning to take the family washing and my Dad's dirty overalls to the newly opened laundrette on Ribbleton Lane. We didn't have a washing machine or hot water so the coming of the laundrette was a godsend for families like ours. I hated having to do this - I dreaded my pals seeing me with the bags of washing - but looking back it was right and proper - and in the long run was one of the things that gave me a valuable perspective on the important things of life. Having ironed his overalls Dad would sit in his armchair, the little black and white TV on in the corner and as my Mother and I watched Sunday Night at the London Palladium, he would fill in his “log sheets” the daily record of his lorry trips - destinations, mileages, times etc - from the previous week ready to hand in to his boss on Monday morning. Even as a young child I would look at his lovely cursive handwriting and wonder if I would ever be able to write so neatly; now I look at the handwriting and use of English of so many today and shake my head - partly in sadness and partly in anger at the carelessness and lack of shame of so many today.

As an ex- teacher I wonder what has gone wrong? My dad left school at 14, had no academic qualifications, didn't know much about Shakespeare or algebra but he wrote beautifully and used both written and spoken English correctly. I wonder what is wrong with people today who write gibberish on FB posts, completely lacking in correct use of English, full of poor spelling, lacking any rational argument and too often interspersed with foul expletives. In 4O years teaching I've never worked in a school where basic skills (including multiplication tables!) were not taught daily yet still today millions seem unable to grasp these basics. Don't tell me it's dyslexia or autism or ADHD or poor teaching or the fault of the school. In one or two cases that might be so, but for the overwhelming majority of cases these are merely excuses because so many today can't be bothered to take care, take a pride in themselves, in their use of English and in how they present themselves to the world; they are not shamed by what should shame them.

Dad would never have claimed to be well learned or a gentleman but he was full of a quiet wisdom and a gentle man; I don’t think I ever heard him raise his voice or be aggressive in any manner. The pride he took in his appearance, in the way he did his job and the quiet way he presented himself to the world was something he retained to the end of his life. It gave him, an ordinary, unknown, uncelebrated lorry driver, a simple but precious personal, professional and honourable dignity. It was the measure of the man unlike today when "success" or "standing in the world" is equated by how much one can earn. We live in a world today that increasingly does not place value upon what sort of a person you are, it values only what one earns. That is not my personal prejudice it is born out by facts: all research indicates that unlike when I was growing up when young people were keen to enter trades and professions that interested them or were of some use to society, now young people want to be high earning "celebrities", or are only interested in careers like the law or economics that promise high financial rewards; cash and crass has triumphed over service and the common good. In today's world millionaires like Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and Jeremy Clarkson are referred to as "alpha males" - and we are supposed to be impressed by that. Mmmmm! Sorry, in that context "alpha male" simply means boorish, crass, selfish, solipsistic and a host of other negative adjectives and adverbs; if we are talking "alpha males" we'll start with my Dad and thousands of others like him: hard working, honest, dignified, caring, responsible for their own actions and the common good of others.

Even in the final months and years of his life when he was very much confined to home and I would drive up to Lancashire each weekend to mow his lawns, do any little jobs, go shopping for him etc. he would always be prepared and ready – shaved, tie on, shoes shining. Partly, I think, this was because he had always done it but also, I believe, because he did it for me – it had a hidden message saying “I’m alright, Tony, you need not worry about me, look I can still take care of myself”. And it worked; I knew that the time to really worry about Dad was when he was not up and smartly turned out. Even on the morning that he died 20 years ago it was so. He had not been well over the weekend and we drove to Lancashire early on Monday morning to see him and do a little shopping for him. Sadly, half way there, we received a phone call from his neighbour to say that he had found Dad dead sitting on his bed. When we arrived an hour later it was as Dad’s neighbour had told us: Dad was dressed, shaved and with his shoes on lying on his bed. He had obviously got up that morning to welcome us but having got washed, shaved and dressed had sat on his bed and simply passed away. When I looked down at him that morning I knew it was how how would have liked to go – smart, clean shaven, well prepared, ready for the day. Now, at 80 years of age I can understand that completely.

My Dad would, I know, be saddened, maybe angry, at today’s world where so many seem to take little pride in how they look, in how they do their job and in their everyday life. He would be distressed when he read in his paper about the behaviour of many and our modern society where so many consider themselves victims, the world against them, their mental health problems, life’s unfairness and the like. He would be angry at the casual use of foul language in social media and the wider media, on the streets, in homes and in school and as I increasingly do, have no truck with younger people who say they haven't got time or the money to do this or that when what they really mean is they prefer to make other (more selfish?) choices in how they live their life or spend their money. Dad wasn’t anything special – just a hard working man who did his best for his family, his bosses and perhaps for himself. But he was, above all, a role model, someone to look up to and, as I get a little closer to the age that my Dad was when he died, I increasingly find myself wanting to be remembered as someone like him; I didn't have the happiest of childhoods (see blog: https://arbeale.blogspot.com/2025/12/throughout-my-childhood-and-even-today.html) - although I never wanted for anything - but in his own quiet way he had been a rock, not only for me but for our little family and for that I will be forever grateful. His lorry driving career meant that as I grew up he would often be away from home for two or maybe three nights each week so I often saw little of him. But the magical times when we went to the cinema together (see blog: https://arbeale.blogspot.com/2011/07/wooden-ships-and-iron-men.html ), or to watch Preston North End or to sit by the River Ribble or the Lancaster Canal with our fishing rods (he wasn't a fisherman but took it up to come with me) are my fondest memories - it was where I learned about how to be a Dad.

"The Gift of the Magi"

 Christmas is a time of stories and story telling. It would not, I think, be Christmas without being reminded of some of the great Christmas tales and verse: Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” telling the tale of the miserly old Scrooge, the wonderful poem “Twas the night before Christmas” describing Saint Nicholas’ and his reindeers visiting to deliver presents to sleeping households, or the film “It’s a wonderful life” starring James Stewart relating how George Bailey facing life’s challenges is saved by Clarence, his guardian angel. The common thread for all these, and more, is the spirit of Christmas, of giving, of redemption; like the words to the great Christmas carols we know the words, we probably know the story well but each year we sing it, read it, watch it, or recite it and still it speaks to us, and we feel better for it.

One of my favourite Christmas tales, and one I often told at school at Christmas time, was written over a century ago by the American short story writer O. Henry. Most of the tales written by William Sydney Porter under the pen-name O. Henry are light hearted, but with a twist in the tail. They reflect the America of the late 19th century and early 20th century so are also interesting historical and social documents. Many of them have a strong “message” or moral. Today, like so much in our brash, “in yer face”, often violent and always cynical world they might well be considered a bit dated, old hat, twee, cheesy or naff - and that is a shame because like all good fiction they teach us about the worlds that others, different from ourselves, inhabit. In reading them, for a few minutes, we become someone else, we see the world from a different perspective; as Atticus Finch in the great novel “To Kill a Mocking Bird” by Harper Lee says “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Fiction allows us to do that, and O. Henry’s wonderful Christmas tale “The Gift of the Magi” does it superbly:

“The Gift of the Magi” by O.Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all she had. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and cry. So Della did it.

Della lay in the cheap, $8 a week furnished flat. In the vestibule two floors below was a letter-box, filled with bills they couldn't pay and into which no more letters could go, and an electric door bell that didn’t work, and above it a piece of folded card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young." However, when Mr. James Dillingham Young came home from his work as an office clerk at the end of every day and climbed the stairs to his flat he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Della, Mrs. James Dillingham Young. The young couple were poor but happy in their love and company and hope for their future.

Della gradually ceased sobbing and put on a little make up. She stood by the window and looked out at the dark wet day. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week didn't go far in New York. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated and now she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him, something near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by her wonderful husband, Jim.

Della turned from the window and stood looking at her reflection in the wall mirror and in that moment she had an idea. Rapidly she pulled out her hair pins and her hair fell to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's before him. The other was Della's hair and now her beautiful long hair fell about her, a rippling and shining brown cascade. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. She ran her hair brush through it and then, with well practised fingers, she did it up again nervously and quickly.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat and with a whirl of skirts and a sparkle in her eyes, she slipped out of the door and down the stairs into the rain drenched Christmas Eve street.

After a short walk she stopped outside a small establishment. The sign on the door read: "Mme Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." Della stepped inside the shop. Mme Sofronie stood behind a glass counter containing hair combs, ribbons and wigs.

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I do buy hair," said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"I’ll take it” said Della, “Give it to me quick" said Della.

And a few moments later, Della left the shop. The next two hours went by on a whirl. She raced from department store to department seeking Jim's present, and at last she found it. Surely, it had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a gold fob chain simple and chaste in design, its simplicity vouching for its value. Della knew immediately that she saw it that it was worthy of Jim’s precious and much loved watch. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the remaining eighty seven cents.

When Della reached home she set to work repairing the ravages of her visit to Mme Sofronie and within half an hour and skilful use of her curling tongs her head was covered with tiny curls. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, wondering what Jim would say.

*********

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops they would enjoy for their Christmas Eve meal.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat at the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stairway on the first flight, and for just a moment her heart raced. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin, worn out and cold. His eyes immediately fixed upon Della sitting by the table, already set for dinner, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face, his over coat still on.

Della wriggled from the table and went over to him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. Please say you don’t mind. I did it for you. My hair grows awfully fast. Let’s say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice - what a beautiful - gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously and quietly, disbelieving, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet, even after the hardest mental labour and despite the evidence of his eyes.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm still me without my hair aren’t?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, bemused, unable to think straight.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you - sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, my love. It’s gone for you, to show my love for you."

Out of his trance Jim seemed to wake. He put his arms around his Della and hugged her tightly to his chest, a tear running down his cheek and then releasing her he drew out a package from his overcoat pocket and put it on the table.

"Make no mistake, Della," he said, "I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me love you less. But if you'll unwrap that package you might see why you had me going a while at first."

Della’s fingers tore at the string and paper. Then as the contents of the package were revealed there was an ecstatic scream of joy; followed, alas by a change to hysterical tears. And Jim took his beloved wife into his arms while she sobbed on his shoulder.

And on the table amongst the torn wrapping paper there lay a set of hair combs. The very ones that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway department store window and that she had, on many occasions, told Jim about. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims - just the shade to wear in her beautiful, but now vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have been adorned by the coveted combs were gone.

Della turned from Jim and picked up the combs. She hugged them to her bosom, and at length she looked up with dim, tear filled eyes and a smile and said: "My hair grows so fast, Jim, I’ll soon be able to put them in my hair!"

And then Della leaped away from him and cried, "Oh, Jim, you haven’t seen your present!" She held it out to him upon her open palm. The precious metal flashing brightly in the glow of the electric light.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

But, instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

And taking her hands in his is quietly spoke. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Let’s just be happy in our own company….how about you put the chops on and we enjoy a Christmas Eve dinner together."

O Henry’s tale ends by reminding us that the magi - the wise men - brought gifts to the Baby in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, O Henry tells us, the Magi’s gifts were no doubt wise ones. But in his little story, Della and Jimmy were, on the surface perhaps, unwise, sacrificing for each other the greatest possessions that they each owned: Della’s wonderful hair and Jimmy’s precious watch. In the last words of the tale, O Henry cuts to the moral of the story and tells us “Let it be said that of all who give gifts these two, Jimmy and Della were the wisest for they discovered a great truth". The Magi in choosing their gifts - gold, frankincense and myrrh - had given it much thought, just as Della and Jimmy did. And although the end result for Della and Jimmy was not what perhaps they hoped, they learned from it a greater truth - that the only thing really worth caring about was their love for each other which is far more important than mere possessions. And, as we all should know, when it comes to Christmas and the buying or receiving of gifts for or from our loved ones it really is the thought that counts.